


Golden Opportunities

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Winter Storm Warning [3]
Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Loki (Marvel), Boys in Chains, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Gags, Illusions, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Public Sex, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-16 00:45:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13624983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Lady Sif lost her famed golden hair to Loki's treachery long ago. He's never paid for his misdeeds, at least to her liking. The Trickster is going to get his comeuppance with a little help from his scorned allies...





	1. A Dish Served Gold

Raven tresses spilled across Thor's spread fingers, pooling in heavy coils in his palm.

“No fairer maiden dwells in all Asgard,” he purred to her. “None to compare to the glory of you.”

Sprawled on her stomach, Sif raised her head slightly from the plump down pillow, the flash of her gem bright eye blunted somewhat by her tangled lashes. “And all  _ Midgard _ ?”

He kissed the shadowy wealth in his palm, tugging lightly upon her scalp. Raising her head to the sting, she continued to stare, sleep eroding away the longer she went without blinking.

“Stop nuzzling my hair and answer, Thunderer.”

"Mmm?” No, he wasn’t getting off the hook that easily for all he acted like an overly large lion cub rolling around in the sunshine. “Oh. You are the loveliest in my eyes, my lady. Is that what you wished me to say to reassure your bruised heart?”

Sif bunched her hand into a fist and punched him in the bicep, a harmless blow that warranted a hearty laugh. “You oaf, so much for your vaunted way with women.”

He rolled to the side and pulled her up, fending off a flurry of smacks aimed at his broad shoulder. “Clearly you have far too much energy to be abed if we are sparring! Come, let’s make it somewhat fairer a match.”

Hearty laughter serenaded the moon’s rise, followed by a high, thready gasp of pleasure. “Do that again with your tongue! Thor!”

The guards stationed outside the Crown Prince’s chambers exchanged flinty looks. Soon enough the fleeting thoughts of another golden-haired beauty who snared his heart once flitted off, to be reclaimed at another hour. But Lady Sif did not forget.

\------

Three days later, Sif strode through a magnificent garden awash in nodding parchment gold and ruby blossoms. Her head swam under the the inebriated, spiced perfume of tuberoses blooming in vast swells.

“Of all the places in Asgard to meet…” She muttered curses under her breath. Her fingers itched under her gloves for her sword, for what little it would do here. This was women’s work.

Impossible to ignore the glorious, golden-haired vision lounging on a jade upholstered chaise in the middle of the garden. A slim goblet dangled from her long fingers, tilted back carelessly. Amora looked up from the book resting on the padded cushion; with a gesture, she banished the book to some dusty library.

She yawned like a cat, showing perfect white teeth and pearly coral lipstick. “Somewhere  _ civilized _ .” Amora peered into the goblet, and dabbled her fingers, restoring the level of the dark red wine to the rim. “Not that miserable, dusty training yard. As you said, this is women’s work.”

“Get out of my head.” Sif pressed her gloved palm to the temple of her winged crown, her eyes narrowing to burning slits. “Or I assure you, I’ll have no problem taking yours.”

“Always violence. No wonder the Prince’s Court adores you.” The Enchantress shifted to sit up mildly straighter, ignoring the threat to her pretty white neck. Diaphanous sylvan panels curled around her, arranged artfully without trying.

Sif never wanted to be that feminine, that useless, but she envied the golden-haired sorceress’ grace. Not in a thousand years could she emulate that. She’d tried.

“Let’s get to the point. I wouldn’t want to waste any of your precious time doing,” she waved her hand, “whatever you do.”

“Enjoying life? Learning? Cultivating my an interest in… ah, never mind, you wouldn’t understand.“ Amora basked under the attention and all but preened, her downswept lashes blunting some of the cold laughter in her emerald eyes. “You have a purpose, I assume.”

Sif gritted her teeth. Life was far more straightforward when the problem called for a blade or an insightful, well-delivered presentation. Not dealing with someone as slippery and untrustworthy as Amora. Unfortunately, those qualifications made her perfect.

“Yes. You’re going to help me put Loki in his place.” She spat out the words.

Amora flinched against the couch, raising her hand to her mouth. “Lady Sif! Have you taken leave of your senses?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Why would I risk my good name against the prince?” Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “This is treason.”

Advancing a step, the brunette warrior leaned over the couch. “What good name? Don’t try to hide it. You’ve wanted the upper hand on him for a thousand years.” Her acidic tone crumpled Amora's aghast little moue, as intended, and the sorceress shot back a viper’s glare.  

Throwing down the goblet, Amora ignored the puddle of wine spreading bloody and dark over the flagstone.

“So Lady High and Mighty comes to me when she wants something. What happened, did Loki keep Thor from your bed with a long night of gambling?”

Sif tried, and mostly failed, to suppress a snort. “Hardly.”

“Then  _ what _ are you wasting my time with?”

Amora gathered up her skirts, carefully rotating to avoid the wine staining her immaculate gold caged sandals. She set down the toes and stood, snatching up her hem to avoid staining the priceless Alfheim fabric. Separated by a foot, she only then realized Sif pinned her in against the furniture. Unless she wanted to wade through wine or tumble back into a rosebush, she had no way to pass.

A smile curled the hunt goddess’ mouth. “The same thing you want, Enchantress. To wipe the smirk off his mouth. Revenge on Loki Odinson.”

“Obviously. Why?” Emerald eyes rolling, Amora huffed. Her patience visibly slipped away, and with it, the subtle charge of violence swelled through her aura.

“My hair,” Sif said.

“That was  _ three _ thousand years ago.”

“So was your last time in Thor’s bed, and who thwarted your  last romance?” Sif threw down the trump card. In some part of her heart, she hated bringing the God of Thunder into a woman’s spat, but if not then, when?

The effect on Amora was exactly as anticipated. Her beautiful face transformed into a mask of loathing and conceit, her hand pulling to her heart. Trails of sylvan mist swept past her, the unfolding spell poisoned before coming to pass.

Hard as it was, Sif waited a few more moments until the rage appeared at its boiling point. “Just think, you--”

“Oh, shut  _ up _ .” 

The golden goddess wheeled on her. “You think you’re so clever. This one time, your purposes align to mine. Once, Lady Sif. But only for my prince’s sake, I will consider helping you. Because that wretched brother of his ruins everything and I cannot bear to see him suffer.”

The brunette stepped back, allowing the sorceress to sweep past. “We haven’t even discussed what to do to him.”

Amora threw a contemptuous look over her shoulder, mouth cruelly twisted. “Really? I already read your heart when you showed up. It’s not a half-bad plan -- for Volstagg, maybe. But paying Loki back? That won’t make him flinch.”

_ I’m going to throw her off a balcony.  _ Hot in her leather armour, Sif hardened her jaw.  _ Maybe Heimdall can tell me about her most embarrassing secret _ .

“I hardly think imprisonment underground counts as a light punishment.”

“You dull, dull woman. He’s the god of mischief. You want revenge,” the word rolled around Amora's lips like a kiss. “You need to be more creative than that. Something dramatic. Special.”

“What then?”

Amora winked. “A crowd to witness his downfall.”

Sif gaped at her. A  _crowd?_

"The other part has promise. He  _should_ be ruined so he never thinks about doing that ever again. Wrecked, even." Amora dabbled her fingers against her jaw. "I'll think about it."

"What do you mean, wrecked? Amora!"

Light converged around the sorceress' feet and she stepped through a portal, leaving Sif alone in the cloying rose garden.

She stared at her reflection in the spilled wine. “Bloody sorcerers.”


	2. The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amora and Sif lay their plans to trap Loki. How do you catch a Trickster? Things get messy from here on out, so if you came for the smut and found yourself wanting, you won't wait much longer.

Even in so rustic an environment as a forest glade, the golden-haired sorceress could make a woman feel like a peasant. Not a spot of dirt clung to her verdant robes, an impossibility given the abundance of dust in the air and drying puddles all around them.

Sif ground her teeth, unable to suppress a need to move somehow. Amora exuded a presence that lured any unsuspecting, weak mind, clouding good sense under an air of awe and wonder. She breathed out an arcane cloud of mental fog and domination, wreathed in a sour perfume. Despite her warrior’s training, the hunt goddess still caught herself staring at the dazzling gilded sandals caged around the woman’s perfect feet.

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” Amora’s amusement snapped Sif back to the moment. “If you cannot even focus on this long desired vengeance of yours, how can I trust you’ll complete your part properly? Must a woman do everything herself?”

Sif schooled her features to neutrality. Anger had to wait for a proper bout on the training fields, where her vicious strikes would strike a dummy instead of that simpering, arrogant sorceress.

“I’m prepared to commit myself to the fullest.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. You would march right up and slap one of those golden collars around his throat.” Amora rolled her eyes. “Loki is not  _ Lorelei _ . He won’t be distracted by a heap of coins and fawning devotees.”

“The collar would work perfectly well for Loki.” Sif clenched her hands. “It keeps your sister in check.”

The sorceress raised her immaculately groomed brows into a quizzical arch, and flicked her fingers. “Lorelei sits in a dungeon. Loki requires an audience to witness his humiliation. That nasty thing covers half his face. Why, it could be anyone under there.”

Much as she hated to admit it, Amora had a point. Revenge called for knocking the Trickster down several pegs. She breathed out through her teeth, deflating an inch.

“We are agreed a public venue is necessary for maximum effect. But he will slip away if he can speak so much as a word.”

“I’ve already thought about that.”

“Then what?” Sif tapped her fingers hard against the scabbard holding her blade, a familiar comfort. “None of your spells can hold him long, else you’d have used them long ago.”

Amora sat bolt straight on the rock, her hands closing into fists upon her soft wool cloak. “They work perfectly well on  _ you _ , Lady Sif. I advise you to curb your tongue. You need my help, and I’ll accept the sting to your pride this once.” She tossed her buoyant golden curls over her shoulder, cat-green eyes sharply narrowed.

Stony silence mollified her better than any words word. Easing back to uneasy attention left the dark-haired woman drained, as though she ran four circuits around the palace district.

“Better. Now, as I was saying, we need a crowd and an inducement the Trickster can’t resist. A place where he will be off guard and stripped of his powers.”

“And where, pray, is this magical place?”

Amora shot a look to spoil milk, her dismay curdling her pretty face into a mask of rage. “How did you know? You… No, it’s simply not possible.”

The corner of Sif’s mouth twitched upwards until she bit down, suppressing the instinctive smirk. She waited, shrugging.

“We lure him to the tournament of the Vishanti,” Amora said. “The Midgard gods of magic invite sorcerers to vie to be their champion, assuming a great mantle of power. Of course Loki covets knowledge. He certainly will show for that.”

“How will this tournament serve our purposes? You mean to trap him or make him look the fool in front of his peers?” Sif warmed to the subject, something finally she grasped in all the elaborate jumblings of a forming plan. She nodded almost to herself. “Deprive him of the divine mantle, he loses face. Spectacularly, he may avoid it for a millennium.”

Amora pressed her palm to her brow.

“Oh, how narrow-minded you are. Not just that. Reduce him to such desperation he will do anything to claim the title. No holds barred there.”

“And you’ll be there to offer that salvation? Forgive me, but I doubt he’ll trust you further than he can throw you.”

Sif predictably earned another scowl. 

“No. I can make the arrangements to have the artifact he will need there. But  _ you, _ ” the goddess waved her finger at the dark-haired woman, “have two roles to play. I do so hope you won’t screw them up.”

Leaning forward, her armour creaked, heels digging into the soft soil. Sif threw a feral smile at Amora, her fingers itching in their gloves for the feel once more of hardened steel and uru under her grip.

“The wretch stole my hair. What would you do, in my place?”

Not a sound originated from the Enchantress. She sniffed.

Sif pressed on. “Destroy his every happiness and ensure he praised your name with a smile at Thor’s side. Require him to bow at every court function, and follow in your wake, bitter at your success?”

Puffing up her ego was too easy. A few choice words to spin the fantasy, and Amora reliably chased after the meaty scrap as sure as any hound in the kennels. 

“‘Tis only hair,” Amora replied, but her eyes glittered behind the thicket of wheat-gold lashes. “Your role, then, is twofold. We shall require the mask used to curb the prince’s excesses after Prince Thor returned from Midgard. You know the one?”

However not? Sif nodded.

“Without that, the whole point is moot. So much of his strength lies in being heard, and unlike that hideous contraption you stuck around my sister’s throat, the mask is subtle. Concealed, which is paramount.” Amora stared off into the golden chain trees and stately blue pines surrounding them, lost in the mist of her own thoughts.

“It won’t be easy, but I can acquire it. The other?”    
  
Amora offered a slow, treacle smile, never once meeting the goddess’ eyes. “Now that depends. Do you want to prick him or ruin him whole?”

The cold sweat trickling down the back of her neck settled into a knot somewhere between her shoulder blades. Sif rolled her shoulders, winging her scapulae back, to no avail. The fine hairs along her nape rose on end.

“I hadn’t considered,” she began, sliced off by a gesture of silence. Her mouth worked in futility.

“You’ll just interrupt me, so let’s make this simple in terms a soldier gets.”

Amora rose from her stony plinth, flowers tumbling off her cloak in her wake. The hood thrown back showed off the glory of her lush wavy hair, the twisted coronet of vines supplanting her usual coronet.

One finger lifted, she pressed the digit to her rounded lips. “Hush hush, Lady Sif. You can stop gaping like a fish and  _ listen _ .”

Sif really was going to kill her when this was all over. She decided that as her teeth cracked together, making not a sound.

“You can irk him, and he spends the next fifty years bedeviling you.” Amora shrugged. “Or you can best him hard enough he avoids you entirely. It’s up to you. But as the latter suits you better, let’s settle on that. I bring Loki to the tournament. You deliver the muzzle,  _ Gleipnir _ , and Thor.” 

Sif’s eyes widened, and she surged up from the log she sat on. Her hands instinctively went for the sword, only to find a warning flash of emerald light tingling around her wrists.

_ Thor? Never. Not even to halt Ragnarok _ .

“It’s that,” she hissed, “or you get nothing. _Gleipnir_ isn’t optional. You know, the lovely magical chain?”

How not? Heimdall used to terrify his younger sister with stories of Fenris the wolf and the sacred chains used to bind the mighty terror until the end of days. All Asgardian children knew of mighty  _ Gleipnir _ , wrought from the sound of a cat’s footsteps, the roots of mountains, the beard of a woman, the breath of a fish, and the spittle of a bird.

_ How can this possibly hold Loki? It’s impossible _ .

“Exactly.” Amora must have read her thoughts or assayed the expression on her face. “Not even Loki can wriggle out of Gleipnir. I so happen to know a length of that pretty necklace isn’t sitting in Asgard. The Collector holds it in trust. Convince him to part with it -- a loan, if you like -- and it’s problem-solved for us.”

The Collector, only an Eternal to deal with. Next Odin line-dancing would be involved. Her heart hammered behind her breastplate, the swell of thoughts a dark, turbulent tide beating within her skull. Sif drew in a deep breath, still silenced.

_ Not enough. _

Amora shrugged her shoulder, displacing ripples of softest apple green wool. “You want your sweet revenge, you deliver up Thor to the tournament. Or  _ I _ can, if you’re not committed.”

She warrior halted, murder wreathing the edges of her vision. Red wrath crept through her veins, heat coalescing in the dark pit that so often swept away every thought. It stalked her, a beast at the halls of her thought. Sif clenched her jaw and huffed a breath through her flaring nostrils, all but vibrating in pent-up anger.

Amora succumbed to a bout of wisdom and put the rocky outcropping between her and the dark-haired woman. Not that the distance would change a thing. Nasty habit of warriors; when they charged, they fouled up everything for a spellcaster.

“You or me, Lady Sif. Make your choice,” she said.

The spell around Sif silencing the vibrations of her voice fell away, and immediately her booming snarl filled the Vanir glade. “--will never involve him in your charades, you mewling quim. I…”

“Bind him in the unholy chains on your own then, you self-righteous bitch!”

They both stared at one another across the glade, and Sif uttered a low, lupine snarl. Her body twisted, torqued at the waist, and she promptly launched her fist into an unsuspecting sapling. Bark exploded, wood fragments and saw dust erupting in a broad circumference around her.

“Why. Thor?” Clenched teeth serrated the words, splitting them as neatly as an axe.

Amora curled her fingers through precise gestures, opening up a green flecked portal behind her. “Why else? You need bait.”

“Not good enough.” The sword all but hummed, beckoning her.

"Bring Thor to see, and Loki will be helpless not to show off. Our plan concludes with the Trickster looking the fool.”

Sif’s fading grip on her self-control waned as the berserk rage crept over her, fouling the clear prism of her thoughts. Visions blurred over the trees and that damnable witch parading around.

_ Loki, sprawled in the dirt. Clothes torn, that arrogant sneer wiped off his bloody face. _

_ Loki, pleading to her for mercy while Odin shook his head in disgust and Thor turned his face away. _

_ The Thunderer gripping her hand, lending his steadfast support, while his younger brother howled to the jangle of chains... _

Amora still spoke. "Seeing the disaster his brother made, Thor will be none the wiser to our hands in it. I’m counting on that.”

The spark of colour faded from Sif’s vision briefly. “How?”

She shrugged and stepped into the portal. Blowing leaves danced on firefly sparks, a balefire presence warping the sorceress’ silhouette.

Sif jerked out of her reverie. “Wait! Why Gleipnir?”

Belling laughter radiated through the divide, odd in its attenuated thinness. “Too many questions, Lady Sif. Bring it and Thor if you want to succeed.”

The portal pinched shut, leaving her alone in the clearing on Vanaheim. Predictably the partly sunny sky gathered into a misty grey pallor. Rain spilled from the clouds directly atop Sif, plinking a sombre melody upon her breastplate.

She despised Amora Incantara more than words could say. But Loki?

Some feelings ran deeper than the roots of Yggdrasil itself.


End file.
